


Formal Trappings

by Aithilin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 10:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16094117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aithilin/pseuds/Aithilin
Summary: As a Shield, Gladiolus understood that he was in charge of protecting Noctis. Even from the formalities they both hated.





	Formal Trappings

There had been a time when he thought it would be the highest honour to stand at the King’s side at the throne. That they would stand like an army unto themselves, in their full regalia, cloaks and shadow and gilded edges. That the light streaming in through the tall, arched windows would shine for them, and only them. Together. A King and Shield.

Gladiolus remembered it all in glimpses from his childhood. He remembered the big room and the heavy material of his father’s cloak, laughing as he tugged at it when he tried to keep up in the hallways that were as familiar as his own home. He remembered the gilded edge to accent the dark, polished stone, and the way the throne seemed separate from time itself, an imposing, impossible future for the little Prince he had been introduced to. He remembered the vague understanding that the King who sat on the throne was the same, smiling Uncle Reggie who sat with them for weekend dinners. And who knelt down with a baby cradled carefully in his arms to let him peek at the sleeping Prince, stern features of the monarch softened by love for his family. 

He remembered the way his father looked— broad shouldered, proud, like he could stop the Niflheim hordes himself if they knocked at the doors of the Citadel— in his armour, his uniform, in the silken robes used for official Council affairs. He remembered his father, distinguished, stoney eyed, and still smiling as he spotted his son in the reflection of the mirror. He remembered watching the man set each piece so easily, with the clips and gilded tassels moving into place, a proud tilt to his chin and a glint in his eye once he was done. 

Once he was ‘presentable’. 

It had taken years to reconcile the bluster and stiff decorum of the formal attire with his father. With the man who clapped his shoulder and joined him on morning runs when he was home from the Academy. Who had a suit that was never touched, even went joining the King for dinner or tea, or walks in the garden on the few days off from Council business they had. 

“How do I look?”

Gladio had never worn this uniform. 

It wasn’t the same stiff, utilitarian material of his regular uniform. Nor was it the comfort of the school uniform that had seemed like a second skin. 

When it arrived— after weeks of fittings, of standing still with Noctis grinning at him for his patience, while a tailor moved around him— it had stayed in its bag. It had stayed tucked away in the closet, with the date of the ceremony scribbled in his own precise handwriting on the card pinned to the covering. No matter how much Iris tried to sneak in, or he was egged by Noctis to try it out, Gladio left well enough alone. 

Formal occasions were for his father. Were for Uncle Reggie, with his suits and decorations, clever speeches and careful phrases. The uniform of his station was something he had never given thought to, though he had a whole closet of tailored suits for various events he was expected to attend with Noctis. There were dress uniforms and suits, tucked away behind his fatigues and civilian outfits. He preferred things to be simple, easy, a step above throwing on whatever would keep him modest on his way to a gym or training yard.

The Coronation of an Heir Apparent didn’t happen too often, and Noctis was not one to enjoy the formalities of his station. At least not alone.

“You look great.”

Noctis didn’t have the luxury of leaving his uniform in a closet for months on end. Gladio learnt that the hard way when he started trying to schedule some practice in. When he managed to look through Ignis’ carefully tracked appointments, and they shared a look at what was planned for Noctis in the coming months. Fittings, etiquette refreshers, portrait sessions (noted by painter and photographer), and any other manner of minor events that would lead up to the big one. That would lead up to the final ceremony, of Noctis’ presentation to the kingdom in an official capacity. No longer a child to be protected from the spotlight. And no longer free from the burdens of his birth. 

They both knew that Noctis’ uniform would be picked apart for weeks leading up to its official presentation at the event. That there would be scrutiny and gossip, stylists tweaking and adjusting, and Noctis caught in the whirlwind of attention like it was a personal hell. Every thread and fall of material, every lack of lustre or shine, and promise of wrinkle or tear, would be under review by the myriads of people watching the Prince like vultures. There would be something new each presentation to the public, some tantalising glimpse of the finished product that would be revealed when the Prince accepted his crown. 

But Gladio was his Shield. 

And he had grown up on plenty of stories of his father sneaking Uncle Reggie out from under the watchful eyes of the Citadel. He knew more tricks than even Noctis did for escaping the shadow of the throne. 

He knew that they only had a few more days before Noctis would be the Crown Prince, rather than just the Prince. And he knew, better that almost anyone, that look of fear that had etched itself in Noctis’ eyes. 

In a few days, they would stand as their fathers did. They would be shoulder to shoulder (more or less) in their uniforms, presented to the kingdom as more than just the sons of their fathers. Noctis would be groomed and fighting the urge to duck behind Gladio as the attention of the kingdom focused on him. He would have a crown— delicate and ornate, just like his father’s own— settled on him. And their futures would be sealed together— just not in the way they had always hoped. 

Not in the way Gladio had imagined. 

It was why he shoved his favourite hoodie into his bag with a weekend’s worth of clothing. 

It was why he grinned at Ignis’ text that the Star had been prepped and a bag of Noctis’ things already in the back. With some of his fishing equipment. 

A few days gone would do them both good. 

“You look…” 

Noctis had always favoured Gladio’s hoodies. It was why he packed them. Out here— in the shaded haven at the edge of the city, beyond the farms and into the forests, where the Wall overhead was blocked by the green of the spring leaves— Noctis had shrugged one of those hoodies over himself. He had let it fold him in, just as easily as Gladio’s own arms. 

“You look,” Gladio smiled. He knew it was a dumb smile. It was affectionate and strange, and he loved it all the more because Noctis caused it; “adorable.”

“So long as I don’t look like a Crown Prince, I think that’s an improvement.”

In a few days, Gladio would marvel at Noctis in his formal attire— at the lean suit and the tailored cut. He would admire the way the light caught the silver and gold of his decorations and gilded threads. As the shy young man forced himself through every polite step of decorum and diplomacy that he had been trained for. 

But for now, out where it was just the two of them, sheltered by the last hint of wilderness within the Wall, they were more than just a Crown Prince and his Shield. 

“Definite improvement,” Gladio agreed as he pulled Noctis into his arms, breathing deep as his lover settled easily against him. As the rest of the world fell away while they were here, Noctis already squirming to get comfortable. “I got you.”

“I know.”

They would never be able to escape the formal attire, the trappings of duty and position. But there would always be these little protections— the soft sweaters and quiet moments— Gladio could promise that.


End file.
